‘Never!’ Johnny Ward said.
‘And it’s killed three of thy sheep so far?’ Little Rob Ramsgill asked.
‘Aye. And Old Man Lister from Padside reckons it’s had half a dozen of his an’all!’
‘Grandpa and me uncles have lost a few too,’ Little Rob said.
‘A wolf!’ Johnny exclaimed. He sounded excited.
Little Rob glanced up and saw me. ‘No, not a wolf,’ he said. ‘A barguest. It’s her.’ He pointed at me. ‘It’s that witch! She told us she’d do it, don’t thee remember? She said she’d turn into a wolf and come after us!’
Billy Gill and Johnny Ward looked embarrassed. I were stunned. I could not find any words and were aware of everyone staring at me.
‘Everyone knows witches can turn themselves into animals!’ Little Rob continued. ‘She’s the one killing the sheep! Have any of hers had their throats ripped out? No! Her sheep ain’t been touched!’
Billy Gill glanced at me and paled. I opened my mouth to say something, but no words would come. Mary were equally silent and I stared at her in surprise. She were never backward in speaking her mind, but now she stared at the boys, her mouth hanging open.
‘Oh, stuff thy nonsense!’
I glanced at Peter Stockdale, my eyes wide in surprise. I had not expected him of all people to speak up for me.
‘There’s no such thing as barguests, thee’s letting thy fancies run away with thee!’
‘Aye,’ John Farmer agreed.
‘There’s been wolves on this moor since time began, and only reason Jennet’s flock ain’t been affected is because it’s so small – she hardly has any sheep! Now come on, out the way, thee’s blocking path.’
The boys moved to the side, and the Farmers and I followed Peter out of the churchyard.
I wondered if he saw the spitting and crossed fingers pointed at me. Whatever were going on, and despite Peter’s words, folk believed Little Rob Ramsgill.
Chapter 41 - Emma
10th January 2013
‘Are you ready?’
I glanced at Dave in surprise. It was the first full sentence or unsolicited comment he’d offered me since he’d arrived back from Scotland three days ago.
‘You want to come with me?’ I had an appointment at the doctors with a mental health assessor.
He stared out of the window at the light covering of snow. ‘Whatever else is going on, Emma, you’re four months pregnant and the roads are bad.’
‘It’s nothing the Discovery can’t handle.’
‘Even so, they’re narrow country roads. I’ll drive you.’
I narrowed my eyes, wondering if he wanted to make sure I actually went to the appointment.
*
‘Emma Moorcroft?’
I looked up at the sound of my name, glanced at Dave, then hauled myself to my feet and followed the woman to a door. Dave stayed where he was and didn’t say a word.
Inside, she introduced herself as Vicky Baxter and gave me a questionnaire to fill out. I looked at the questions that tried to gauge my mood and behaviour, and answered them as best I could. How could I explain what was happening to me with multiple choice answers?
Then the real questions started. ‘How are you sleeping?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not, really. I can’t stop writing, and I can’t get to sleep.’
‘You’re a writer?’ I nodded. ‘What’s stopping you getting to sleep? Planning your book or worrying about it?’
‘I’m not aware of the time, and can’t tear myself away from writing. It’s almost as if my character is taking me over.’ It was the closest I would come to admitting to her that Jennet had possessed me.
Vicky nodded and made some notes.
‘So, you’re working hard?’
‘Every waking minute.’ I replied.
‘It sounds obsessive.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about the book, or bear to be away from it.’
‘And is it affecting your marriage?
I laughed, though without mirth. ‘You could say that.’
There was a pause, while she made some notes. ‘You’ve recently moved up to Thruscross?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you like it there?’
‘Very much. I used to go the old sailing club when I was a child. I love it there, it’s my favourite place in the world.’
‘It’s very isolated.’
‘I prefer to think of it as quiet.’
Vicky smiled. ‘Do you have any children?’
My face fell and I shook my head. Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked furiously. Vicky said nothing, but pushed over a box of tissues and waited for me to continue.
‘We started trying a couple of years after we got married, but . . .’ My breath caught in my throat in a loud sob and I lost my battle with tears. I reached forward without looking at Vicky and took a handful of tissues. I pressed them to my eyes, then blew my nose. ‘I . . . we . . .’ I broke off again with another sob.
‘It’s ok, take your time,’ Vicky said.
I nodded and fought to regain control of myself. I took a deep breath, then tried again. ‘I had a miscarriage, at twenty three weeks.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Vicky said. ‘That’s terrible, and very difficult to get over.’
I nodded, tears falling freely again. ‘It was just over a year ago, but it still feels like yesterday. Dave’s been wanting to try again for ages, but I wasn’t ready, I can’t bear to lose another baby.’
Vicky nodded. ‘And you’re . . . at seventeen weeks now?’
‘Yes.’
‘With twins?’
‘This is confidential isn’t it?’
‘Yes, as I said before, this is completely confidential unless I thought you were at risk of harming yourself or somebody else.’
I sighed. ‘Yes, I’m expecting twins.’
‘It sounds as if you’re struggling with the idea of that.’
I stared at her, tears still falling. What the hell. ‘My husband may not be the father.’
She nodded, but made no comment.
‘I had an affair. With our neighbour.’
She nodded again. ‘Do you blame your husband for the miscarriage?’
I shook my head violently. ‘No, no, of course not, it was just one of those things. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. My body failed my baby.’ I broke down again.
Vicky waited for me to calm. ‘What did the doctor say?’
I sniffed and blew my nose. ‘That it happens more often than people realise. He reckoned that there was nothing wrong with me, that it was food poisoning, but how can it not be my fault? I ate whatever it was killed my baby! And now with all the writing and not sleeping, I messed up my pills,’ I said and stared at her, defiant. I did not want to talk about the miscarriage. She nodded and I carried on. ‘Mark is a descendant of one of the characters in the book. It was like a compulsion. I didn’t want to, but couldn’t stop it.’
‘He forced you?’
‘No! No, he didn’t want to either. Jennet forced us.’
‘Jennet?’
‘My character.’ I stared at the floor. I had said more than I had meant to. ‘I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what it was like.’
She nodded again, and scribbled some notes.
‘So, am I mad?’ I attempted a laugh. ‘Do I have that multiple personality disorder or something?’
She smiled. ‘We don’t use the word mad any more, and dissociative identity disorder, as it’s called these days, is extremely rare. It’s difficult to diagnose and to treat, and many psychiatrists don’t believe it even exists. To be honest, you’re describing obsession rather than dissociation, and it sounds like you’ve had a very stressful year, what with the move so soon after the miscarriage. You’re grieving, and it’s lonely up there as well. I don’t think we need to worry about obscure disorders, but focus on you and your needs. Is the man you cam
e with your husband?’
I nodded.
‘Has your doctor prescribed any anti-depressants?’
‘No, she didn’t want to while I’m pregnant.’
Vicky Baxter nodded again. ‘I think we should organise some counselling for you. CBT – Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – could help you recognise your altered feelings and behaviours and help you find ways of coping with your work/life balance. I also think some joint counselling with your husband would help as well. You can work through your grief together, as well as find a way to deal with this pregnancy. Do you think he would be amenable to that?’
I shrugged. ‘I can ask him.’
She nodded. ‘We would do the CBT here, over the course of three months, but for the couples and grief counselling there is a local service which would be more suitable . . .’
‘No!’
She stared at me in surprise.
‘I . . . I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, the neighbour’s wife . . . works for them.’
‘I see, that’s out then, I’ll have a chat with my supervisor and see if we can offer the joint counselling here as well.’
‘Thank you.’
*
‘How was it?’ Dave asked as we turned out of the car park.
‘She thinks it’s the stress of the move and the isolation.’
He said nothing.
‘I’ll start a course of counselling – they’ll write with my first appointment.’
‘Hmph. What good will talking do? It’s gone too far for that.’
‘She says there’ll be tools to help me find a better “work/life balance”.’ I mimed speech marks in the air. ‘She also wants us to do some joint counselling.’
‘No.’
‘Dave . . .’
‘What’s the point? Either that,’ he jabbed his finger at my belly, ‘is mine, or it isn’t. Talking won’t sort it.’
‘Dave it’s either ours or it’s Jennet’s. Please, don’t let her destroy us!’
I screamed as he hit the brakes and I was thrown forward against the seatbelt.
‘Stop it!’ he shouted and slammed his fists on the steering wheel. ‘Just stop it! Stop saying it’s Jennet’s! Jennet doesn’t exist! She’s a figment of your imagination!’
I stayed quiet. Dave rarely lost his temper, and I’d learned to wait the storm out when he did. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and let out the clutch. We drove home in silence.
Chapter 42 - Jennet
25th November 1777
I had spent the day on the moors, gathering rosehips and nuts. It were where I felt safest; my only company the sheep, plus shrews and mice, and the buzzards, owls and hawks that hunted them. No people and plenty of warning of any approach.
I loved it up here. The biting wind fresh and clean in my face; blowing all my worries – and the hate of the village – away.
But it were time to go home. I had more than I could carry with ease and I were cold, thirsty and hungry.
I set off towards my house and saw the Farmers’ place – I would stop off there; say hello. It had been over a week since I had spoken to somebody; Mary Farmer would help put off the loneliness of my empty house. Just for a little while.
*
‘Ay up, lass, how’s thee?’ Mary greeted.
‘I’m well, Mary, how’s thee?’
‘Ah well, can’t complain. Come on in, lass, have a sit by the fire, thee looks nithered. I’ll get thee some warm ale.’
I pulled a stool closer to the fire and hunched over, holding my hands out to the heat.
‘There thee is, lass,’ Mary said, holding out a jug of steaming, spiced liquid. I took it and held it between both hands, letting the warm jug finish what the fire had started and bring feeling back into my fingers.
‘It’ll be a hard winter, lass, will thee be able to fend well enough? I fret about thee, sometimes, alone in that house.’
‘I’ll be right enough, Mary. The moors give me most of what I need, thee knows that.’
‘Aye, well. Much of grain’s rotted in field this year, we’ve had that much rain over summer. Folks won’t part with it, not for herbs, not this winter.’
‘Oh they will, Mary, the bastards will.’
She flinched at my words.
‘If they don’t, I’ll threaten another bad harvest next year – I’m sure they already think I’m to blame for this one – bastards!’ I said again.
Mary frowned and sipped her ale.
‘Thee’ll never guess who came to see me last week, Mary.’
She glanced up at me – I could not read her eyes. ‘Who?’
‘Marjory Wainwright!’
‘Marjory Wainwright? She never did! Don’t tell me she were after thy help making another babby – not after last time!’
‘No.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘Not that, she were after a curse to hex that Lizzie Thistlethwaite. Apparently Bert’s been carrying on with her behind Marjory’s back.’
‘Oh lass, I hope thee sent her packing.’
I studied my ale and drank.
‘Lass, are thy wits that addled? Thee’s been in’t stocks once, and thee’s believed to have had curses come true – don’t forget them sheep of Ramsgill’s that drowned, and mill flooded not long after Big Robert Ramsgill refused to grind your grain!’
I fidgeted on my chair, but Mary had not finished and wagged her finger at me.
‘They all blame thee for that – and for Marjory losing her babby. Then there’s that wolf they’re all convinced is thee. Thee must take better care, lass!’
I met her eye, scared. I had only been thinking about what I could do to them; not what they could do to me.
‘Richard Ramsgill had a right do with Thomas over stocks – he won’t lock me in them again, Mary!’
‘Oh lass, how can thee be so trusting, after all that’s happened? Believe me, they can – and would – do a Damn sight worse!’
I flinched, then stared at her. I finished my ale as John walked in, stamping mud from his boots, and Mary jumped up.
‘John, look at mess thee’s made! Get them boots off!’
He glared at her, made to answer, then spotted me. ‘Oh, how do, Jennet.’
‘Evening, John. I’m just on my way.’
‘Thee don’t need to leave yet, lass, stay.’
‘No. Thank thee, but I need to get back. I’ll be salving sheep starting tomorrow and I want to get some herbs sorted for a tonic for them.’
‘Salving? That should’a been done last month, lass!’
‘I know, I’m a bit behind, but it still needs doing.’
‘Aye, well, all right then, but mind how thee goes.’
I would have to examine each ewe carefully to make sure she were healthy enough to survive the winter, while I rubbed the Stockholm tar and tallow mixture (along with my own medicinal additives) into their fleeces to proof them against water and protect them from scab and lice. The new walls were getting closer, and it might be the last time my beasts would be found by a wandering tup. I had to make the most of it – the lambs that resulted may be the last ones I would see from my girls.
I gave Mary a hug, then picked up my baskets and set off down the hill.
*
I breathed the fragrant air deeply. I had a great bowl of herbs steeping and the steam filled my home. They had to stay a good two hours, then I would drain them ready to mix in with the salve in the morning.
I sighed and poked the fire, then sat at the table, head in my hands. It had been a hard year, in all sorts of ways. Mary’s warning ran round my head; things would only get tougher. It were not fair. Why did they treat me so?
I got up with new resolve, and fetched Mam’s inkpot – there were still some ink left. And a few sheets of Pa’s precious paper. I needed to tell my story. I needed folks to know my side of things.
I sharpened a goose wing feather and dipped the nib into the inkpot, then pause
d to think. I would likely not be able to get more ink or paper; I would have to make my words count.
I bent over the page and started to write.
Chapter 43 - Emma
14th January 2013
I put the quill down and flexed my fingers. I’d been writing for hours and had cramp. I needed a break.
I put the kettle on and stared out of the window. The reservoir was a dark grey dotted with white horses and surrounded by thick white snow. I shivered; it looked cold, forbidding and unwelcoming, and I was starting to hate it here. My dream home, built in my favourite place in the world – everything I had once loved, I now hated.
Dave was still giving me the silent treatment. But at least he was home, and the snow would keep him here for the time being.
I hadn’t seen much of Mark, although I had been spending time with Kathy – she wouldn’t leave me alone now she knew I was pregnant. She had no idea I was carrying twins or that they were Ramsgills.
I shivered; the unwelcome hold Mark had on me seemed to have dulled. It was as if Jennet had what she wanted – babies – and had no further need of Mark.
Dave was walking up the hill to the house, dogs jumping in the snow around him. When he was home – which seemed to be as little as possible – he walked for hours. I wiped away a stray tear; he avoided me as much as possible – not hard in a house this large.
I held a hand up in a wave, knowing the dim table light behind me meant he would be able to see me. He bent and threw a snowball for the beasts. I knew he had deliberately ignored me. I couldn’t find a laugh for the dogs as, bewildered, they snapped at snow in their search for the snowball.
I gritted my teeth; enough was enough. Yes, I’d cocked up – literally – but it wasn’t my fault. This was all down to Jennet. I turned and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He would stop avoiding me.
*
‘Good walk?’
‘Aye.’ He didn’t look at me.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Moors.’
‘Dave, please . . .’
He briefly met my eye. ‘Please? Please what? Please – there’s no doubt over the father of your baby? Please – my wife didn’t fuck the neighbour while I was away working? Please – my wife isn’t mad and doesn’t think the mother of the child she’s carrying is a ghost?’ He threw his coat on to a chair and finally faced me, fists clenched at his side.
The Haunting of Thores-Cross Page 16